The weight of his glory
by public static void
Summary: The floor was cold. When Harry put his left foot down and it touched the wooden floor of the dorm, he shivered. He brought down the other foot and stared at the floor for a second, already feeling the need to go back to bed before his day officially began.


The floor was cold. When Harry put his left foot down and it touched the wooden floor of the dorm, he shivered. He brought down the other foot and stared at the floor for a second, already feeling the need to go back to bed before his day officially began.

A quick shower under lukewarm water left his body tired, aching from a weight he could not lift. Maybe if Neville hadn't been knocking the door to use the shower Harry would have enjoyed the water running down his body, but he wouldn't know now. Tiredly, he turned off the water and stepped under the lion that breathed warm air to dry them. The warmth did nothing for him, and as he stared into the mirror he wondered if he could get Madame Pomfrey to let him stay on the infirmary. He was bitterly aware that nobody would find it odd for him to spend the day there.

As he clothed himself, with itchy and dull clothes that no longer fit well, Harry thought on the whispers following him around. The Chosen One, they called him, but no one else but him could understand the responsibility of a looming prophecy. No one could feel their life falling like grains of sand in an hourglass, slipping past the tether of life and death and running faster each time he breathed. They even dared to call him crazy, attention-seeker. He wasn't because attention had never been good: it always meant a week in the cupboard under the stairs or another murder attempt.

Sometimes, he thought almost indifferently, Harry wished Voldemort would have succeeded.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Neville," Harry said rather dully, earning a frown and a worried glance from Neville.

"Don't worry about it?" the boy said confused, asking rather than reassuring. Harry gave him a small smile that only produced a deeper frown on his friend's face.

Harry asked himself if he could really consider Neville a friend. He saw the back of the tall boy as he got into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, wondering if Neville liked him at all. During their first year, after all, he was responsible from Hermione's petrification of Neville.

Which reminded him of Hermione's own petrification during their second year.

It seemed as if all he brought to his friends, to the people around him, was pain and danger.

He glanced at Ron, still sleeping on a messy bed without covers. Seamus and Dean were asleep too, but they would be getting up soon. From the five of them, only Neville rose early and Harry simply didn't sleep enough to count. A cynic smirk appeared on his lips as he thought it might have something to do with the prophecy and their almost linked destiny.

Harry did not stay in the dorm, musing about the unfairness of it all. Instead, he went out to the Common Room and from there to the Great Hall. He really didn't want to be with anyone that day.

His steps took him to a seat near the High Table, where he gladly sat under the scrutiny of his diverse professors, each sporting a different expression when they glanced at him. He could see McGonagall's worry, Slughorn's reluctant smile, and even Snape's usual glare. They were all better than being around Ron and Hermione and their incessant questions. It was all for his own good, he supposed, but when Hermione said for the fifteenth time that he needs to speak to someone about Sirius, about the Ministry, about the prophecy... Well, Harry had enough of her nagging.

Regret at that thought immediately overcame him, feeling suddenly inadequate to be saying those things of his best friends, those who had been through everything with him, from their quest under the trapdoor to their escapade last year. He took a slice of treacle tart, trying to erase those thoughts from his mind. Ron and Hermione were his friends and cared for him, no matter what he was.

A slice of treacle tart always made him feel better, but that day it tasted like ashes and vinegar to his mouth. He pushed the dessert away from him, watching as it disappeared when he didn't reach back for it a few seconds later. The elves were ever careful not to waste any food, so he didn't feel too guilty about rejecting their work. He sighed, wishing he could give back his load of issues with the same easiness as he pushed the treacle tart away.

He looked around, noticing people were already coming into the hall to share their first meal of the day. He grunted and stood up, waving a hand tiredly at those who greeted him. Many of those people grimaced at his response and he tried to make himself small in turn: he didn't mean to be rude and anger them, but he really had no energy to be with them. With anyone, really.

The only person he might want right then and there was Sirius, but he had been killed because of him.

Harry tried to shun those thoughts away from his mind, replaying Remus' words of absolution in his mind to no avail. Remus' words were well-meant, but the ghost of a smile in Sirius' face when he fell through the Veil didn't let him believe them. He could see Sirius' eyes filled with betrayal, though nobody else seemed to care. They only said everything would get better with time.

The of Invisibility, always inside his pocket, was a gift from magic in that moment. He deviated to a small aisle and covered himself with it, letting his feet take him wherever he could be alone. The Astronomy Tower turned out to be the subconsicios choice.

In front of him, there was nothing but a free fall. He wished for his broom then, wanting to feel the wind on his face as he fell, the thrilling song of his magic when he pulled the broom up to balance himself. Harry almost summoned his broom, wand already in hand and grin on his face, but then he let go of the thought. It happened suddenly and he almost felt childish for letting the thought of flying take him from the truth hiding inside himself: he was guilty of Sirius' death, and to mount the broom his godfather gifted him would be another slight to his memory. Harry would leave it at Grimauld's Place the next time he was around.

Meanwhile, he would try to enjoy his day.

A quick charm told him he was ten minutes late to his first class, but he couldn't care. There was something useless with being at class when people were dying because he could not defeat Voldemort yet. He wanted to rush into battle, to run towards Voldemort and cast a spell strong enough to kill the man or die trying. He wouldn't mind dying, because that would mean Voldemort could be killed by someone else: the prophecy only said neither could live while the other survived, after all.

He cast the time charm again. Five minutes had passed since he did for the first time and Hary frowned. It appeared to him that a whole year had passed since he woke up that morning.

The ache on his body had not receded, only vanishing for a second when he thought of Voldemort. Was that because of the prophecy? He almost wanted to ask Dumbledore, but he didn't know if the Headmaster was trustworthy. Yes, he had been (finally) teaching him about Voldemort and how to defeat him, but to tell the man of his heart's desire, a desire so strong he did not think it was healthy but could still not let go...

A leaf fell on his shoulder, startling Harry and making him almost fall down. He wondered if his magic would catch him time, or if it would somehow cushion his fall. He almot didn't even realise the leaf had come from apparently nowhere, the tallest trees far from his height. Only when he thought of the leaf again did he feel the pull of familiar magic from behind him.

"Good afternoon, Harry."

Dumbledore's words had a feel of worry, sadness, and an unfamiliar energy that radiated warmth. Harry leaned back into Dumbledore's presence, comforted by the Headmaster's magic. He wondered if the Headmaster knew he had been thinking about him, if he knew of the anger Harry still felt towards him.

"Headmaster," he greeted with an inclination of his head, wanting to keep his forced indifference towards him while still placing his total attention on the old wizard.

Dumbledore didn't respond beyond nodding sadly. Harry had the impression that the man was prompting him to talk, but what was there to say?

Instead of talking, Harry sighed and went to him with his head low.

"Your friends are worried for you," Dumbledore commented as he put a hand over Harry's shoulder, ironically making Harry feel lighter. "And Professor Snape's class went without a hitch. Still, he took notice of your absence."

"Of course he would. Snape is always looking for ways to put me on detention."

His presumption was met with a deep, sad sigh from Dumbledore.

"Professor Snape's main concern is your well being, Harry," he explained patiently and almost tiredly. "You should do well to remember that."

They stopped walking near the bottom of the staircase.

"We all care about you."

Harry silently disagreed. He pressed his lips into a line and nodded, not giving Dumbledore an answer.

The Headmaster walked away, but Harry had no doubt he would be keeping an eye on him.

Somehow, the thought made him feel a little better.


End file.
